


i know/you care

by LittleDragonPrince



Category: Paranatural (Webcomic)
Genre: 13 year olds, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anxiety, Autistic Character, Disability, Enemies to Friends, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Headcanon, Mental Health Issues, Middle School, No Romance, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Shitty Dialogue, Similies about fist fighting toddlers, johnny bleeds twice in the first chapter alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDragonPrince/pseuds/LittleDragonPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nowadays, you can't even remember what, exactly, that text message said, meaning it must've been largely unimportant; ironic, really, considering the impact it would end up having on your life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. forget the rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok for real so i never meant to write another paranatural fic but holy SHIT 1) the paranatural fandom is SOO nice i got so many nice comments from so many supportive people affirming my headcanon about johnny being disabled it was very pleasant 2) i recently found, like, a circle of fellow pnat fans on twitter (speaking of which see the author notes at the ends for dedications)
> 
> if you wanna talk to me about paranatural you can find me on twitter @burnhounds , a twitter account SPECIFICALLY to talk about paranatural.
> 
> anyways this is gonna be multi-chapter, & pretty much plotless. get ready.

There’s an important distinction to be made between the day Johnny met you, and the day you met Johnny. A similarly important distinction has to be made between _seeing_ somebody and truly _meeting_ somebody, a lesson you learned fairly quickly, though possibly didn’t understand until halfway through the school year.

Your first interaction with Johnny was not one you would define as 'positive'. In fact, it had sparked somewhat of a childish rivalry between the two of you.  It had been the first day of your 8th grade year at a new school in a new town.  You'd stayed up late -  _too_ late, really - the night prior, to chat with your old friends about their own first days back home (at the time, you hadn't considered Mayview your home in any way, shape, or form).  You were tired, groggy, and at risk of running late, so all in all, not a great day for Maxwell Puckett.

Your father was, thankfully, understanding of your tardiness, and disregarded your bad mood the way he always miraculously did.  Quickly, and a little bit desperately, you prepared for the day, pulling on a pair of crinkled jeans you found on your bedroom floor and pulling your favorite black hoodie on over your head.  As you raced into the kitchen, you grabbed something to eat for breakfast on the way to school and bid your father goodbye, ignoring his grandiose prattling the whole while.  Popping into the back room of your brand new cornerstore-cum-apartment, you grabbed your trusty scooter and started the ride to school, apple gripped tightly between your teeth.

Four minutes into your seven minute commute, your phone buzzed in your jean's back pocket.  You threw the apple core to the side of the road ("It's biodegradable," you reassured yourself, "I'm returning that fruit to the earth") to free up a hand, one leg steadily pushing you and your scooter along the road.  You grabbed your phone - an old, flip-style one; you were frankly too lazy to get it replaced - steering yourself sloppily with your left hand.

(Nowadays, you can't even remember what, exactly, that text message said, meaning it must've been largely unimportant; ironic, really, considering the impact it would end up having on your life.)

It was a message from one of your hometown friends, asking you some kind of question and wishing you good morning.  In your typical fashion, you prepared a long, eloquent response, chock full of snark and general pessimism.  Riding a scooter while texting was difficult, however, and probably ill-advised, and you noticed too late the sharp curve of the road.  You veered with all your might, just barely rounding the bend, before immediately ramming into something - or, rather, some _one_ , resulting in the two of you tumbling to the pavement. _  
_

A jolt of pain went down your leg from your hip where you landed, earning a wince from you, but otherwise you were uninjured.  You rolled onto your back from your side, readjusting your signature cap on your head to appear casual. The trio of people looming over you and gawking certainly weren't as concerned with appearing unfazed, staring at you like you had just murdered their family - which reminded you of the person you had mowed down with your scooter just seconds ago.

Said person was sprawled on the asphalt a bit pathetically, and the first thing you noticed about him was his jolt of bright red hair.  The second was the massive, bulky leather jacket he was clad in.  The third was that his name was apparently Johnny, though you gathered that information not by staring at his unmoving body but from one of his friends kneeling down and calling his name.

"Bro, get up," the child said, or rather, bellowed, because  _wow_ was his voice deep for a 13-year-old (though he effectively looked like a high schooler, perhaps due to his sheer size alone), "Johnny, c'mon."

At that, the so-called Johnny shifted, lifting himself using one hand, the other swiping across his face only to come away wet with blood.  _Well, damn,_ you thought,  _that makes this a lot more awkward._

"Hey!" a voice snapped, this one higher pitched and also a bit gruff.  You snapped back to attention, only to find the enraged face of Johnny turned towards you.  The injury was mostly superficial - a cut underneath the eye, right beside his nose - but, still, you could see why he would be angry with you. So, perhaps against your better judgement, you decided to just do what came naturally - crack a joke about it, laugh it off. Besides, the situation  _was_ kinda funny. In some way. Probably.

"Oh, snap," you grinned cheekily at him as you stood, brushing off your jeans as you did so, "are you, like, okay?"

As Johnny hefted himself to his feet, one of his other friends stepped forward, practically frothing at the mouth with (what you felt was) melodramatic indignance.

"What's your problem?" he quite literally  _snarled_ , which was a little alarming, to say the least, "Where do you get off ramming yourself into our friend?"

You scoffed, put off by the stranger's bad attitude and also the massive scar stretched across his face, "Okay, first off -  _phrasing_ , and second off -,"

You never got to finish your thought, however, as Johnny grabbed his seething friend's shoulder with a short bark of 'Stephen'. The latter immediately stopped his raving and aforementioned frothing, instead moving to sulk and glare from over Johnny's shoulder.  The redhead rolled his shoulders and his neck in what was probably meant to be an intimidating gesture, hand scrubbing at his scraped cheek again.

"So,  _kid,_ " he said brusquely, and you had to resist the urge to grumble a correction, "I don't appreciate being knocked around - _but,_ seeing as how I'm in a good mood this morning, I'll forget about it if you just gimme an apology... and all the money in y'pockets," the sentence was punctuated by a sly smile, as if he'd just committed the greatest act of mercy.

"What? You gotta be kid-," you began, in absolute disbelief, but the earnestly expectant look on Johnny's face stopped you in your tracks.  He was not, in fact, kidding.  With a sigh and a shake of the head, you reached into your back pocket to fish out whatever change existed there.  "Fine.  I'm sorry, okay?" you admitted, finally dropping the snarky attitude, "Didn't mean t' hurt you, I'm just running late,"  _probably_ super _late now, due to this ridiculous exchange_ , you added, though only to yourself.

To Johnny, you gave the meager pocket change (a whopping 35¢), and said a touch hopefully, "We're cool, right?"

He looked you over, brow furrowed and face investigative, as though he was trying to figure out how honest you were being.  The tension all but vanished from his figure, however, as he nodded and drawled, "Yeah, we're aight. C'mon, guys, let's go."  Johnny's be-scarred pal, Stephen or whatever, looked less than satisfied however, glowering impressively in your direction as the quartet wandered off, thankfully turning off the street in a different direction than yourself.

With a final huff, you picked up your scooter and went back on your way, hoping you weren't  _too_ dreadfully late for first period.

You didn't really speak to Johnny again for awhile; you saw him about school, sure, but you mostly stayed out of one another's ways.  After about three days, however, for seemingly  _no_ reason, he decided to start going out of his way to pick on you or taunt you or otherwise be a nuisance.  It was never anything genuinely hurtful, of course, but constantly having to deal with these bizarre interactions (the only kind of interaction possible with Johnny) was a bit tiring and a  _lot_ distracting.  He also loved to take your money, which was a pain, to say the least.

So you were never quite  _nice_  to Johnny back; you were snarky, callous, and just the tiniest bit sadistic, reveling in the punishments he would receive from teachers for rough-housing and bullying and other such mischief. You couldn't be in a room with one another without butting heads, and then pinning the resulting conflict on the other, like kindergarteners caught in a tiny fist fight.  Your feud was petty from the start, and you had to admit that, even as you indulged fully in it.

School was not all bad, of course, as you quickly found other friends in the form of the Activity Club (which was formed by similarly apathetic students who wanted to avoid joining other, more invested clubs; you fit right in).  So forgetting about Johnny wasn't too hard, most days.  Until the day that became impossible, AKA the infamous day you  _really_ , honestly  _met_ Johnny Jhonny. _  
_

It was a Sunday afternoon, and you were, once again, teetering about on your scooter.  Three months into the school year, and you'd settled comfortably into Mayview, despite all its weirdness.  You were rolling down the side of the road, minding your own business, when you spotted the signature shock of bright red hair, crouched on the curb across the street from you.

Normally, you wouldn't have done anything about this fact, except maybe speed up so as to avoid confrontation, but there was one thing you could not ignore about Johnny - he was bleeding.  As in  _legitimately_  injured, clutching his nose and snuffling loudly to himself a touch pathetically.  He was also alone, which was honestly a first, seeing as he was typically always surrounded by his goons.  The absolute unfamiliarity of the situation was what halted you, and you couldn't help but gawk.

Internally, you knew that leaving Johnny like this would be a dick move.  But you also didn't think he'd want comfort from you, seeing as how you were pretty much enemies (or the 8th grade equivalent).  Eventually, your moral side won over; that, and you'd been standing there, bewildered, for so long it'd be kind of awkward to just _leave_ without saying or doing anything.

So you rolled your scooter over to Johnny, trying to find something intelligent to say.  When he spotted you, he immediately tensed up, preparing to fight, like a cornered animal being approached.  The rawness and honesty of the moment only made it that much more _surreal_ , however, and you were just having second thoughts when he snapped up at you, "What're you lookin' at, dillweed?"

"Dude," you sighed, dropping down into a crouch in front of him, "Johnny."  The use of his name was what got him to look you fully in the face, moving his hand away from his nose.  "What the hell happened to your face?"

It mostly looked like Johnny had gotten punched  _really hard_.  His nose was bleeding, crimson liquid smeared onto his lips and smudged on his cheeks and fingers.  His eyes were rimmed with gross, yellow splotches, the beginnings of bruises.  He was glaring at you, tired and defensive and ashamed all at once.  He opened his mouth, seemingly to tell you to buzz off and mind your own business, but seemed to think better of it.  A beat, before he admitted without meeting your eyes (which wasn't unusual; he rarely made eye contact, even when you fought), "Got in a fight.  With an 11th grader."

"Jesus, man," you blurted, falling back into a sitting position, right there on the side of the road, "What were you expecting?  You'd magically and inexplicably be capable of beating up a seventeen-year-old?  Despite being, y'know, five-foot-three and also _twelve._ "

"Thirteen!" snapped Johnny, as though you did not know this already, "And I didn't pick a fight with  _him,_ really. Was _his_ fault."

And you outright snorted in laughter at that, because if there was one thing you knew (or thought you knew) about Johnny, it was that he always started things.  "Yeah, same way it's  _totally_ my fault that you chose to be a huge jerk to me all the time; you  _never_ pick fights." _  
_

Instead of retorting immediately, however, like you'd expected, Johnny just narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, confused and obviously frustrated by... _something_. After this moment of silent consideration on his part, he said with conviction, "You lied to me."

"...I did what now?"

"Back when we first met," he mumbled, like it was obvious and you should've known, "you  _said_ you were sorry but you  _weren't_ , and I thought you were but then Stephen explained y' were being 'sarcastic'," and he said the word like it was in air quotes, like it wasn't a real thing.  This accusation stunned you silent, at first.

(Your first assumption, from this small bit of befuddling information, was that Johnny's friend, Stephen, had purposefully tried to incite conflict between the two of you.  In a few months time, however, you would discover that it was a genuine misinterpretation on the boy's behalf.)

"That's," you began, with a huff, "That's just blatantly not true. So -,"

Johnny dismissively shrugged and interrupted you then, with a wet sounding splutter.   "Stephen is better with that kinda stuff.  Whatever."   _Fair enough,_ you said to yourself, as you plopped down next to him on the curb.  He sniffled miserably.  "I can't go home yet, though, my mom'll be  _pissed_ if she finds out I let some high schooler clock me."

"So... what," you prodded, "you just gonna wait here until the bleeding stops? Until the bruises fade?"

"Until I think up somethin' real convincing to tell my parents."

And that did make some sense, really, so you just nodded quietly. Then the two of you sat there; you were trying to ignore the thick air of tension, while Johnny was just trying to clean his face using only his bare hands.  The sight was pitiful, really, and despite your rivalry and general disdain for one another, you really couldn't help but feel bad for the kid.  Even if he was a bully, he didn't deserve an injury to  _this_ degree.  You sighed, shuffled awkwardly, and finally made a decision that would end up being monumental, even in its simplicity.

"Why don't you come by my place?" the offer was half-assed and mumbled, but still enough to shock Johnny into staring at you, "You can clean up, maybe get some ice for your, like, entire face, and try to come up with an elaborate lie to feed to your parents, as any good son would."

He stares owlishly at you, one hand still curled around his nose. His brow twitched, the corner of his lips quirking down for a second as he considered your words.  But when he finds no dishonesty or malice in your proposition, the frown turns into a tiny smile, which turns into his trademark massive shark-toothed grin, and if it wasn't for the blood all over his face and the bruises, you'd think he was perfectly fine and uninjured.  It was almost shocking how quickly his mood completely changed.

"Sure!" he jumped up from the curb, a blur of leather and red hair dye.  When you didn't immediately follow him at the same speed, he frowned down at you, though it was mostly joking, "Yo, c'mon, le's hustle."

"Jeez, okay, okay," you groaned, though you were smiling (just a little).  You stood up at a much slower pace than Johnny, to his chagrin, and grabbed your scooter.  You folded it up, so you could carry it under your arm, and then the two of you began the trek to your house.  The trip was silent, partially due to a lack of things to say, mostly due to Johnny keeping a firm grip on the lower half of his face.

The corner store that also served (and continues to serve) as your home was not far from where you had found into Johnny, so thankfully the awkward, silent stroll was not too long.  You walked in, hearing the satisfying  _ding_ of the bell above you, and called out a greeting to Zoey, who looked bewildered by your company but, fortunately, not enough-so to ask.  You led Johnny up the stairs to the actual house part of the building, and instructed him to sit on the couch and  _stay there._ He beamed wildly up at you, in mock innocence, and with a sigh you went to the kitchen to grab a bag of frozen peas and some paper towels.  You wrapped the peas up in the paper towels, just thick enough that the cold would be less painful to touch, and wandered back into the living room only to find Johnny on his knees right in front of the TV.

"Hey," you barked; Johnny shot a distracted glare in your direction before turning back to face your various consoles, "Don't bleed on my video games."

"Too late," he replied snappily, and you could only sigh in amusement at that, "and do you have Smash Bros?"

The question stunned you, just for a moment, before you fully comprehended what he had just said.  "Uh, yeah... d'you wanna play or -?"

"Duh," he smirked, jumping back up and onto the couch, "This is my chance to fight you in the digi-realm."

"Everything you say is nonsense," you deadpanned, nonetheless kneeling down to turn on the Wii and set up the games, "you know that, right?"

"Did you know shut up?" he responded, and the absurdity of the retort actually made you smile widely, "Because shut up."

And you did, instead opting to just collapse on the sofa beside Johnny (who was cradling the makeshift ice pack his lap, injury mostly forgotten for now) and play the game. Johnny picked Bowser, which was not at all a surprising choice, while you went with your typical main, Samus. God only knows how long you played against one another; you were both fairly even in skill.  You played for ages, each of you changing up characters and stages and even, at one point, playing on a team against NPCs. It was easy to get along with Johnny like this, honestly. There was no pressure to talk about _anything_ other than to shout insults and game strategies to one another.  Eventually, your playing was cut short, as Johnny began to loudly complain about his face hurting; the splotches of purple and green that rimmed his eyes had grown considerably worse, and you had to convey your sympathies.

And when Johnny caught sight of himself in the reflection of the now-turned-off television, he began to panic about what he could possibly say to his mother.

“How about,” you said, trying to keep a level head, “you tell her we were hanging out and you tried out my scooter and fell on your face?”

“No, that’s –,” he started, face scrunched up in a frown; he blinked and cut himself off, however, before bouncing his head up and down eagerly, “Yeah, yeah, that’ll work!  Thanks, bro.”

“Uh, you’re welcome... bro.”

If Johnny had noticed the hesitation and confusion in your voice, he certainly didn't respond to it, instead just beaming back at you from behind his bag of peas.  With his perfect lie _finally_ decided, he hopped up from the couch and dropped the bundle of paper towels and frozen veggies onto the coffee table (which he had just been using as a foot rest). He adjusted his signature leather jacket, right back to his usual confidence despite his prior hysterics, and started off to the door, but not before flashing a parting peace sign in your direction over his shoulder. "I'll see you around, Max, right?"

You blinked, shifted the bill of your snapback out of habit, and called back, "Yeah," Johnny smiled real wide at that, swinging the door open, "Yeah, see ya soon."

And as Johnny left your apartment (for what was the first time, but not the last), you were surprised to realize that you were looking forward to school tomorrow for a whole new reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIC SO HYPE IT HAS A DEDICATIONS SECTION
> 
> first off, thanks to caden (@ghoinghost on twitter) for indulgin me on twitter & also for coming up w/ the world's best AU - the paranatural iCarly au. this is dedicated 2 u.
> 
> ALSO dedicated 2 the max to my johnny, Sickle (sickledsnake on tumblr). my bestest bro. this is 4 u.....
> 
> i would dedicated this to all of sin squad tbh but ursula doesnt read paranatural.


	2. stubbornness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But with every new friendship came a ticking time bomb until they found out, until you slipped up and had to choose between lying again or clumsily explaining just what was wrong with you. And you and Johnny's friendship, while bizarre and inexplicable, was one you wanted very badly to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so while a lot of this fic is gonna be about johnny being autistic, as per one of my headcanons, a lot of it will also be about max having an anxiety disorder, as per ANOTHER one of my headcanons.
> 
> so uh, content warning on this chapter for the following !!!:  
> internalized ableism  
> descriptions of an anxiety disorder + panic attacks?
> 
> yea though this fic is literally just me tellin you all my disability headcanons, welcome aboard the SS neurodivergence.

Johnny's smile - all sharp teeth and wild eyes and hyena-esque laughter - was  _anything_ but reassuring.  And Johnny, despite his town-wide reputation as an immutably angry person, seemed to smile a lot, especially at you.  He seemed to be incapable of being quiet or small in anyway; every single part of him was  _loud_. You were frankly unused to being around somebody who felt so much, all the time.  Johnny's constant stream of ever-changing emotions was more than a little overwhelming, and on more than one occasion you had to wonder just how Johnny dealt with it internally.  You found yourself becoming exhausted just from hanging around Johnny (and his crew of friends, who were similarly eccentric to varying degrees).

Your friendship was an inherently odd thing, for a number of reasons.  The first was that you didn't get along with each other's friend groups.  This fact seemed to be some kind of silent agreement reached between the both of you; you never made Johnny hang out with the Activity Club, and he never dragged you along to meet with his gang.  Brushing shoulders with them was inevitable, of course, and you were always at least amiable. Most of the reason you didn't get along with the other three members of the infamous foursome was because they didn't seem particularly  _trusting_ of you.  R.J. had never even said a single word when you were around; they just...  _stared_ at you, with their big green eyes.

Stephen was mostly too aggressive, really, even when he finally admitted that he was wrong about you being a sarcastic liar.  Still, he was always coming up with bizarre, outlandish conspiracy theories, all of which were made ten times as upsetting when you realized they made _sense_. Of all of Johnny's crew, he seemed to be the most viable to get thrown in detention or suspended.  Ollie was fairly quiet, too, but when he did speak to you he managed to be polite, almost shockingly so.  Despite looking like he could and  _would_ kill a man, he was by far to calmest of the quartet.

The second reason your friendship was unlikely was because Johnny himself wasn't the best at the whole 'social' thing.  The closer you got to the redhead, the clearer it became why he really only stuck with the same three people.  He was oblivious to the mood of a situation, hopelessly confused by the emotions and motives of others, and, strangest of all, totally okay with these apparent gaps in knowledge or skill.  For somebody who seemed to spend most of his life bumbling through conversations, Johnny was surprisingly laid-back and comfortable in his own skin.

And that (somewhat) leads you into the third and final reason you and Johnny's new found kinship shouldn't  _be_ possible - you were exact opposites. While your wit was subtle and quiet, Johnny's was opaque and boisterous.  You were collected, reserved, good at keeping your own secrets; Johnny was painfully honest and volatile, enthusiastic in everything he did.

Most of all, Johnny was confident and largely unaffected, while you were... not.

You never thought there'd be some aspect of Johnny that you envied, but here we are.

At first glance, you definitely seem like the more… stable of the two, but you _know_ that’s not true.  You know that there is a side of yourself that is absolutely frantic; all frayed neurons and bundled energy. That there are days where your whole being feels itchy and tense, and it builds up into moments so painful you stop breathing.  You tried looking it up on the internet - your father's answer to absolutely any question more complicated than "what're we having for dinner" (and even  _then_ ) - and found pages upon pages of information about something called an 'anxiety disorder', and the words simultaneously horrified and fascinated you.  On one hand, it meant there was a reason, an explanation, an  _excuse_ so you wouldn't have to feel so guilty.  But on the other hand, it meant you were sick, and not in an easy way.  They were words you kept to yourself, personal and shameful; you even cleared your internet history, just in case. And in lieu of genuine happiness or relaxation, you put up a great big wall of aloofness and cynicism, your own futile attempt at feigning normalcy (and not a very convincing one, at that).

It wasn't easier pretending, but it was less frightening, and that was good enough for you.

But with every new friendship came a ticking time bomb until they found out, until you slipped up and had to choose between lying again or clumsily explaining just what was  _wrong_ with you.  And you and Johnny's friendship, while bizarre and inexplicable, was one you wanted very badly to _keep_. So, as with every friendship you'd ever had, you never told him about it, never let your carefully crafted persona of apathy falter.  To do otherwise would be an embarrassment, quite frankly, and there was never any guarantee he'd be understanding if you did tell him. As far as you were concerned, you could tell him, and he could laugh in your face, call you a weirdo and a coward. There was no _guarantee,_ of course, but you could never be too safe; there was always that tiny, little chance that you would ruin everything.

Besides, expecting the worst was your specialty.

But it had been a crappy day.  You had woken up late, so your mad dash to get ready left you feeling groggy and distraught.  You walked into first period several minutes tardy, and every eye was pinned to you as you took your seat as nonchalantly as possible.  Crouching over your desk that morning, chest tight and blood running cold, you knew you wouldn't make it through the day.  This was the inevitable happening.  No secret can be kept forever.

It was before fourth period - history, your least favorite class because the teacher was a hard-ass - and you were huddled in front of your locker, burrowing desperately through the clutter.  Books and scrap paper and pens were strewn about you, backpack unzipped fully like a gapping maw.  No matter how you searched, however, you could not find what you were looking for - a three page essay you had written for the aforementioned worst class.  It was already going to be one day late, too, because writing was never your strong point and always took you longer than expected. But at that point, none of that mattered, because the damn essay was nowhere to be found.  As you searched, you could feel your chest collapsing, the sharp acidic tang of nausea rising through your throat until it hurt to breathe. You could only choke and gasp, movements jerky as you kept digging, tearing up other pieces of paper as you foraged.  You felt ridiculous and childish, crouching there at the side of the hallway, where anybody could see you if they chose to walk by.  You could  _hear_ yourself hyperventilating, feel your hands shake as you kept looking through the bag over and over again.  _It's not here,_ a voice inside your head said, cold and precise,  _you've been searching for five minutes - it's not here._

You couldn't stop yourself, though.  You had to find it, because if you didn't - well, something bad would happen. Something catastrophic, something life-ruining, something that warranted this much fuss,  _you huge baby._

Too caught up in the throes of your 'panic attack' (another set of words you had discovered online that made your heart flutter oddly), you didn't notice when a certain somebody came to stand beside your huddled form; it wasn't until he spoke did you realize he was there.

"Uh, Max," said Johnny, voice breaking through the haze of your anxiety; he was staring down at you with wide, concerned eyes, hands buried in his pockets.  You don't know why you were so surprised - Johnny loved to swing by your locker in between his own classes for chats.  You just stared back at him, incapable of responding, and so he continued on awkwardly. "You, um... You feelin' okay, dude?"

You only managed a garbled, "I'm," before a wave of sudden shame washed over you; you opted to bury your face into your hands instead of finishing the response.  When you felt the wetness on your hands, your embarrassment only doubled as you realized you were  _crying_.  There was no escaping the uncomfortable situation, though, so you just resolved to curl up further into yourself, hoping by sheer willpower alone you could convince Johnny to leave you alone.

"Hey," spoke up Johnny again; you groaned softly into your damp palms, "Bro, look at me."  His voice was softer yet closer to you, somehow.  You turned to see him, leaning forward just a bit to reach one hand out towards you.  He was smiling tightly, face expectant but unsure. Once he was certain you were looking  _at_ him and not just through him, he flexed his outstretched fingers as an offering.

"C'mon," he said, as you took his hand, "let's get you outta here."

You aren't sure, to this day, just how long the two of you wandered the hallways.  You were too busy hyper-focusing on Johnny's form in front of you, like tunnel vision.  The only thing that had felt solid or real during those few minutes of mindless walking was him, after all.

Eventually, you reached your destination; a tiny corner of the school, hidden away in the back of the language department.  There weren't even any lockers or classrooms nearby, it was so utterly remote.  You had to wander to yourself, in the back of your still panicking mind, how Johnny even knew about this odd, estranged place.  "Well, here we are," said Johnny, glancing at you from over his shoulder with a small grin, "Make yourself at home -  _mi casa es su casa_ and all that."

When you didn't move or respond, however, instead just continuing to stand there shaking, Johnny tugged sharply on your arm to draw your attention. "C'mon, Max," he laughed, as though you were just being silly or stubborn, as if this conversation was an absolutely normal one, "Let's pop-a-squat."  It was then you had to notice that, despite his light-hearted tone, Johnny was keeping a firm grip on your hand.  As he started to sit, back against the wall, you followed him, knees buckling slightly as you sat.

Again, you are not sure how long the two of you sat there, Johnny rocking slightly and humming to himself as you focused all your energy on mimicking his steady breathing.  He wasn't saying anything to you, wasn't asking you any questions (even reassuring ones), but he also wasn't staring at you like a complete spectacle.  So it wasn't too bad.

Like always, you eventually felt better, though the calm was tentative.  You slumped forward, breath heavy and head aching. The embarrassment crept up on you, making you feel clammy and shy.  You didn't want to break the silence, but you did end up slowly pulling your hand out of Johnny's grip.  He turned to you at that, and his earnest expression made you feel like you had to say  _something_.

What came out of your mouth was a quiet, lackluster, "Sorry," to which Johnny only laughed.

"S'no problem, bro," he chuckled; you smiled weakly back.  He stood up before you, once again offering you a hand up, for which you were grateful.  Once you were both standing, though, the reality of the moment hit you, and you felt yourself grow flustered and humiliated once again. You weren't sure what to say to him, weren't sure how to express what you were feeling adequately at all, so you just went for a simple 'thank you'.  Johnny only stared at you for a second, head tilted to the side like a curious animal, before saying brightly, "It's whatever, man."  He paused, adding with careful emphasis, "Anytime."

And before you could reply, Johnny beamed at you - all sharp teeth and wild eyes and hyena-esque laughter - as if he already knew what you planned on saying.  At the sight of his trademark smile, you could only sigh in relief and realize you had never felt more at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: if you google search "i get so anxious i can't breathe" all the results are about anxiety disorders & panic attacks. so its entirely feasible max just went pokin around the internet looking for advice & discovered those words. like. that's smth i've done before.
> 
> anyways this took me longer than i thought it would b/c i kept gettin distracted by, like, icarly shit. uh. sorry.
> 
> ALSO my depiction of an anxiety/panic attack is by NO MEANS the only way panic attacks happen. everyone's experience is unique.


End file.
